


Tempête de Neige

by ATHENA88



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATHENA88/pseuds/ATHENA88
Summary: After weeks of back-to-back murder cases, Poirot and Hastings take a much-needed winter holiday to relax and make up for lost time. Their train from Paris to Brussels becomes delayed in route due to a snow storm and are forced to stay overnight.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

Hastings handed the remaining pieces of luggage to the attendant who, per Poirot’s strict request, was stacking them neatly in the above compartment. Hastings moved out of the way while Poirot continued to speak to the young man.

“Symmetry, if you please -- it is essential.” Poirot commented, gesturing for him to move the case on top closer to the wall. The corners of Hastings’s mouth turned upwards into a small smile at the dumbfounded look of the attendant.

“Oui, monsieur! Bien sûr.” The young man replied and did as he was told.

Final calls for the 3:00pm train to Brussels echoed along the station platform. The last of the stragglers pushed their way into the nearest coach. 

Once settled, Poirot and Hastings made their way to the center of the train, ready for a bite to eat. They found a table at the far end of the dining car. The train wasn’t terribly crowded, but the corner allowed them a bit more privacy. The falling snow outside was visibly growing bigger and Hastings could see the anxiety building in Poirot’s face.

Hastings reached across the table to gently touch Poirot’s arm. “Don’t worry. We will be there on time. They’ll make sure of it.”

“I wish I had your optimism, mon cher.” Poirot’s brow furrowed, staring out the window as the ground was covered in a white blanket of snow. 

Hastings lightly rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers and breathed a sigh of exhaustion. The trip from London to Paris had been unexpectedly long for them, having had to make a change in departure time due to maintenance issues with the first boat to take them across the channel. It was a damn miracle that they made it on the connecting train. 

This was a much-needed holiday for both of them. Despite early protest from Poirot to take a break, as this time of year was prone to show an increase in crime, they came to a mutual agreement to get away for a couple of days. The weeks leading up to Christmas were almost overwhelming. Five different cases over the course of three weeks. This irregular amount of work left both of them fatigued at the end of each day, permitting little time for much else. It disrupted their routine and Poirot began to notice the toll it was taking on Hastings.

Poirot suggested a visit to his home town of Brussels, where they might indulge in the many delights of the Christmas Markets this time of year, including the array of delicious chocolates and pastries sold that Poirot loved so dearly.

Dinner was prepared promptly at half past 5:00pm. Poirot took his delicate time with the menu, posing a number of questions to the waiter about how the meal was cooked and ultimately served. Hastings was famished at this point, but following his companion as always, he waited patiently for his turn to place his order. Over their meal, Poirot relayed to Hastings about the various sights, sounds, and smells to expect once they arrive in Brussels. Hastings enjoyed watching the spark of excitement in Poirot’s expression as he spoke. He would never admit it, lest it would worry his companion, but Hastings couldn’t give one solitary care about the Christmas Markets or Brussels – they could be on their way to Siberia – and all that mattered to him was that he was finally allotted some time alone with Poirot. 

Later, shortly after dinner plates were cleared, the train’s occupants felt a slight jerk and the lull of movement came to a slow, swaying creep. Poirot’s brow wrinkled and he sighed. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe maintenant?”

“I say. It seems as though we’ve slowed down.” Hastings pushed back his seat and stood up. “I’ll go see what I can find out.”

Hastings rejoined Poirot at their table in the dining car several minutes later. “I just spoke with the conductor. It looks as though we will be staying on overnight. They are relocating us to one of the sleeper cars at the back of the train. Our belongings are being moved as we speak.”

Poirot exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, calming himself as best he could. He shook his head. The stress of their travel had finally got the best of him. “We should never have left London! Why Hastings?” He fixed a glare at the window and then back at his companion. “Why did we have to take this holiday?”

“We needed a break. The work was getting too much. Neither of us have slept well in weeks.” Hastings pressed gently.

“Non, non! Poirot was fine – j’ai été content!” 

“Well…I wasn’t happy.” It was barely a retort, but the emotion in Hastings voice caught Poirot’s attention. 

Hastings frowned and dropped his gaze to his lap before rising from his seat. He did not wish to catch any further disappointment from his companion. “I-I’m going…I think I will head to bed early tonight.”

Poirot wrinkled his nose and he shook his head, frustrated that this day of their holiday would end in a row.

“Pardon, monsieur.” The waiter interrupted Poirot’s sulk. “Compliments of the Railway.” The young man placed a small platter in front of him. Poirot gasped at the gorgeous assortment of chocolates. He immediately recognized them – from Brussels – his favorites. 

Poirot shot up at the waiter. “But how did you–?” Hastings.

“Oh, I believe your companion arranged this with the chef when you first boarded.”

Poirot nodded silently and the young waiter left him alone. Sighing, a heavy feeling sinking into his chest, Poirot felt a mixture of shame at his behavior, and also a warmth at the romantic gesture Hastings had made.

“Oh! Excusez-moi!” Poirot exclaimed, calling back the young waiter. “A request, if you please.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the delay! Been way too busy lately to write. I decided that I would add a third chapter, which I will post later.**
> 
> Poirot makes amends. He and Hastings get their long-awaited time together.

About a half hour later, carrying with him a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses, Poirot made his way to the sleeper car. 

Once inside their designated sleeping quarters, Poirot surveyed the room and nodded, deeming it tolerable. There were bunk beds to the right and a table with chairs against the window. To the left, Poirot then eyed his companion through the crack of the bathroom door compartment, noticing right away that Hastings had just bathed. He made a slight smile at this, glad to see his companion had not chosen to go to bed early after all. 

Poirot walked over the table, setting down the bottle and glasses. He removed his coat jacket and loosened his tie before eventually taking a seat on one of the chairs. 

Stepping out of the compartment in only a robe around his waist, Hastings looked up at Poirot, a little surprised to see him returned to their quarters so soon. He then moved his gaze to the beds and crossed the tiny room. The silence between them continued for several minutes while Hastings unpacked his pajamas and other amenities for the evening.

Finally, it was broken with an audible sigh from Poirot. Hastings kept his back to him.

“Hastings, I must say something.” Poirot folded his hands, giving Hastings a direct look. Hastings paused and turned around slowly. “Poirot, he has behaved selfishly.”

Hastings frowned and then gestured dismissively. Even in moments of severe frustration, he was always quick to forgive his companion. “No, no…I understand why you were upset–”

“Let me finish. It is not often that I am able to admit my faults, so best you accept it when offered.” Poirot said, the playfulness evident in his tone.

Hastings couldn’t help but smile, recognizing the truth in his statement.

“I have not regarded your feelings or needs lately as well as I should.” Poirot stood up from the chair and walked a couple of steps towards Hastings. “As you stated quite truthfully in the dining car earlier, work has kept us busy – too busy for us.”

Hastings looked fondly at the older man, still communicating that he did not hold their earlier argument against him.

“Merci infiniment, mon cher, pour les chocolats. They made me incredibly happy.” Poirot’s eyes were bright as he smiled. He then reached for his companion’s hand and Hastings stepped closer, allowing him to do so. Poirot brought the hand to his lips, before leaning upwards to close the remaining distance between them for a chaste kiss.

Hastings gestured to his luggage. “That’s not all, you know. I remembered how much you’ve been enjoying Trollope.” The taller man turned back to the case atop his bunk and pulled out a book wrapped in tissue paper and handed it to Poirot. “Another title to add to your collection.”

“Ah! Most definitely, mon cher. Merci!” Poirot beamed, opening the wrapping. Hastings smiled and shifted around him to the table. He had not missed for a second that Poirot had brought champagne back with him. He poured them both a glass of the bubbly drink.

“To a well-deserved holiday.” Hastings toasted.

“To our holiday.” Poirot added with a pointed stare. The brightness in his eyes faded a little and was replaced with a warm and alluring glint. Hastings could not help but catch the meaning intended.

After another sip, Poirot put his glass back down on the table. He reached for Hastings’s hand again, holding it between his own. “Your doting on me is always appreciated, mon brave. But I have not forgotten about you.”

Poirot leaned forward to kiss Hastings again, slower and drawn out this time. They only parted when Hastings pulled away for a breath. Poirot held up a finger, gesturing for his companion to remain where he was. The older man turned to locate his case and opened it. A moment later, he stepped back to his spot in front of his companion, this time with something in his hand. At finally seeing the object, Hastings broke into a grin and a hearty chuckle. It was a travel bottle of unscented lotion. 

“Work has kept us busy…and rather tattered in the evenings.” Poirot reiterated, with a fond smile. “I figured some time for intimacy was high on your trip itinerary.”

Hastings blushed, nodding. “Well, yes. If that’s alright.”

“Bien sûr.” Poirot brought his free hand up, brushing the back of his fingers against Hastings’s cheek. “As I have said before, mon cher. You only need to ask and I am happy to oblige your needs.”

Poirot tossed the little bottle on the mattress behind them and brought Hastings into a full body embrace. Hastings leaned down to bury his face in the crook of his companion’s neck and wrapped his arms around his torso, gripping at the silk back of his waistcoat. Poirot planted open-mouthed kisses along Hastings’s jaw, neck, and collarbone. He then reached down and dislodged the towel around Hastings’s waist.

Hastings shivered. Poirot rubbed the palms of his hands against the bare skin of his back, as if to quell the coldness Hastings was feeling. Seeking the body heat of his companion, Hastings pressed the lower half of his body against Poirot. Hastings moaned at the feeling of his naked cock against Poirot’s clothed hip and couldn’t help but press against him further.

Poirot could feel Hastings eagerness and pulled back to look at him, smirking. “No point in wasting time, eh, mon brave?”

Hastings blushed again. “Been too long. Can’t blame me, can you?”

Poirot shot him a fond smile, shaking his head. He could not. While he did not share his companion’s need or, for that matter, desire for sexual intimacy, Poirot had come to sympathize with Hastings’s desire to be physically close to him.

“Um…how should we– ?” Hastings glanced around. Poirot mirrored his assessment of the room.

Logistics were going to be tricky with the narrow mattress and the low ceiling of the top bunk above. But then an idea came to him.

“Ah, I think I may see a solution.” Poirot said, thoughtfully. “Though it may still prove to be an awkward position for you, mon cher.” Hastings cocked his head, trying to ascertain where his companion’s thoughts were going. 

Poirot put both hands on Hastings’s shoulders and gently pressed him to take a seat on the bed. Hastings did so without a word. Poirot brought over one of the chairs by the window and set it down directly in front of him. 

The chairs were cushioned with a fabric sheet lining covering the arms and connecting to the seat itself, ultimately giving the sitter a cozy feeling. Poirot thought this would provide physical comfort to both himself and, if logistics worked out the way he was hoping, Hastings as well. 

Poirot took a seat. They were just a few inches apart, their knees cramped between the edge of the bed and the chair. Poirot encouraged Hastings to spread his legs apart so that his own knees could fit between them. Once a comfortable position was found, Poirot reached for the discarded towel on the floor and draped it across his lap. Poirot knew well that there would be a mess. They typically engaged in these intimate activities in their own bed with Poirot’s pajamas getting messy – which he did not really mind – however, Poirot was not content with this reality happening to one of his favorite suits. 

Hastings reached for his companion, wanting to feel as much of his body against his as he was able in their position. Hastings had always been a tactile lover, and since Poirot preferred non-sexual physical affection, he was eager to return the intimacy in this way.  
Poirot tried to accommodate his companion’s efforts by shifting his chair forward again until his knees were touching the frame of the bed. This forced Hastings to spread his legs wider, and while it was indeed awkward as Poirot had suggested, he felt it made the situation all the more enticing.

“Better?” Hastings nodded.

Their lips connected again, heated and somewhat demanding, especially from Hastings. Poirot blindly reached for the bottle of lotion and opened the lid, pouring just enough to coat his palm. Hastings shivered again, this time from the anticipation rather than the cold air.

Poirot began his ministrations to his companion’s cock. His movements were delicate yet determined, purposefully providing pleasure without hurrying the result. He had done this many times to Hastings and had learned by now what he enjoys most. 

Hastings halted their kissing as his breathing became heavy and more audible. He bent his head down to lean once again into the crook of Poirot’s neck. The urge to meet the movements of his companion’s hand could not be held back anymore. Hastings moaned and began slowly undulating his hips. After a few minutes of this, Poirot shifted his hand so that his stroking movements were centered near the tip.

Hastings whimpered and pressed forward to wrap his arm around Poirot’s shoulders as if to stable himself. Poirot smiled and planted a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“Almost there, mon cher?”

Hastings shuddered. That would be a ‘yes’ Poirot thought. But it seemed as if the taller man was resisting his release. He gently asked if he was alright.

Hastings sobbed. “I don’t want it to end yet.”

“Nonsense. Come, mon brave. Take your pleasure.” There was a directive tone in Poirot’s voice and Hastings shuddered again.

His body wanted to release – it had been nearly two months since they did anything close to this – he was practically dying for it. But he wanted to prolong this moment as much as possible.

Poirot became slightly frustrated at his companion’s stubbornness, but he did not show it. He knew a way to help his partner reach his release.

Poirot brought his free hand to join the other, gently gripping the tip. He used the lotioned hand to pull back the foreskin and press the pad of his index finger against the glands. 

Hastings let out an agonizing cry and his body jerked with sudden release. Poirot massaged him for several moments, assessing when the organ in his hand stopped leaking. Hastings was panting like he’d just made a running sprint, chest heaving.  
Poirot wiped his hands on the edge of the towel and then reached up to pull Hastings’s head up just enough for his to see his face. He leaned forward and kissed him tenderly.

Hastings was relaxed and almost pliable in Poirot’s grasp. He hummed happily into the kiss, but couldn’t hide his little frown when they parted.

“What is it, mon cher? Are you not pleased?”

Hastings sighed contently, bringing his hands up to roam along his companion’s clothed arms and chest. “Of course, I am. It’s just that…I was hoping for–.”

“Yes?”

Hastings looked away, almost shyly, which was odd considering what he was requesting they had done a number of times before. He reached up to grasp at the older man’s hand. “Possibly a bit more…with your…fingers.”

Poirot let out a sigh, but didn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling upwards. “You don’t think I know you well enough by now, mon amour? Poirot, he was well-prepared for this.” 

Hastings chuckled breathily, relieved at hearing this.

Poirot gave an affirming nod before scooting back the chair. “Now, come, let’s clean you up first…and a clean towel, if you please.”


End file.
